Slightly small for a badger. Basic coloring and stripes. An eyepatch covers his left eye, and an area of ugly scarred skin surrounds the eye, bereft of fur; three jagged scars run through the skin, and under the patch. His remaining eye is black and his face is drawn into a serious frown.

Possessions: He wears a blue tunic over light chainmail, tied with a simple rope belt, and wields a Greatsword with parrying hooks a paws length from the v-shaped hilt.

Strengths:

Physical Strength

Physical Endurance

Always willing to give a helping hand

Weaknesses

Blind to his left due to missing eye

Afraid of fire

Rhythmic drums or hammers on anvils give him panic attacks

A social recluse

Underestimates himself

Overindulges in recklessness trying to prove himself

Personality:

He views battle as the only way to prove himself to his dead father. The more he fights, the more enemies he kills, the stronger enemies he kills: the stronger he becomes. This ideal has pushed him through the seasons he has been alone. He only wishes to become the leader his father had wished him to be, even though that wish was unfair to the young badger. He trains with his sword to build his muscles and get used to the weight of the weapon, but he has no skill. Instead he swings it about as if it were an overburdened sack, hoping to hit something. He knows his skill is lacking, but continues to build his muscles in the hopes that brute strength will compensate.

He seeks solitude, because he does not want to face the reactions goodbeasts have when they see his scar. This has made him socially awkward and even overly mean to those who venture too near. He would rather run them off with a threat, rather than as a result of his disfigurement. Alternatively he uses his scar to intimidate and scare vermin, most of whom he has only dealt with river rats and the like, nothing too threatening to a badger, even an untrained one. The fear he instills in the vermin builds his confidence, whilst the fear he might instill in goodbeasts only drive him further from them.

His fear of fire runs deep, and its origins are the same as his fear of drums or hammer ringing on anvil. Sight and sounds that remind him of his father, and that fateful day when he got his scar. Fire is such a phobia for him, that he has never lit a campfire, and has nearly died from exposure during the winter. Drums and such he has not had to contend with as much, but when he hears them, he shakes uncontrollably and he will either run until he cannot hear the sounds, or will blackout and find himself convulsing on the ground, fur dampened with his own sweat. Everytime he is confronted with these fears, he reaffirms the weakness his father tried to snuff out, and relives the shame of not being who his father needed him to be.

The few times he has aided woodlanders, he has felt overwhelmingly good about himself. Whether it was helping tend farmland, lift a wagon so a wheel can be replaced, or sending a small band of vermin bullies running. He felt at peace in those moments, knowing he was doing just and good deeds with his otherwise shameful existence. But those where earlier days when, before the scar had scabbed over and grown ugly and threatening. He longs for those days again.

Background:

Born to Ragall Ironpaw, the chieftain of a badger tribe in the Highlands and a masterful forgebeast. He was expected to take over as chieftain when his father died, but Razor was smaller than the other males and was never the victor of any skirmish. At the age of fifteen, Razor was called to his father who was forging a blade. Ragall told Razor he needed to get stronger, he needed to become the chieftain. As he finished the blade, a massive sword with parrying hooks and a v-shaped hilt, he handed it to Razor and demanded his son kill him and take his place. Razor refused, which angered his father. Ragall called him weak and no son of his. He charged, but Razor swung the sword in fear. The attack was weak and his father batted it away, the sword clattering to the floor. A single swipe of his fathers paw and Razor was knocked unconscious.

When Razor awoke, he found he could not see out of his left eye and his father was nowhere to be seen. Razor felt at his eye and his paw came away bloodied. He began to cry and ran to find his mother, Minaura. She was crying too, and Ragall lay on the floor, still. Razor went to him and found he did not breathe. Razor knew his father had died of some illness, perhaps having known it was his time he had tried to force Razor into the role he wanted him to take. Mixed with feelings of betrayal and shame, Razor took the sword his father forged for him, took the name Rawstripe for his wound, and left the tribe, silently promising his father?s spirit that he would not return until he was strong enough to become the chieftain.

He spent the past two years of his life wandering the lands, doing whatever work he could to keep himself fed, and even have a roof over his head some nights. He spent much of his time swinging the greatsword he carried strapped across his back, building his muscles and learning to use the weight of the weapon to his advantage. He fought a few vermin groups here and there, but nothing big or noteworthy. The fights gained him battle knowledge and a few minor scars, and the gratitude of terrorized beasts of a good nature. More and more, though, he found goodbeasts shying away from him due to his eye, and took to wearing a patch, though it hardly seemed to help. He began to stay away from large settlements and stay in the wilds, hunting for his food, and sleeping under the trees or in a cave if he could find one.